Beastly Passions (4 page)

“Skin is soft,” Taras murmured, almost as though he were talking to himself. His digits danced along her forearm. “Like rabbit fur.”

Asha jolted, eyes wide. They stared at one another for a stretch of several seconds and she chose not to move, too afraid that her assumption had been right minutes ago. Rabbit. Legs. Canines. But those irises, those ridiculously blue irises that she’d found so cold and watchful were…soft. His glare was no longer a glare but curious and searching.

Still holding her wrist, his other large hand came up, his knuckles trailing down the curve of her jaw and Asha resisted the urge to lean into the caress. He’d done this before. When they were announced as husband and wife, he’d stroked her face and then he’d kissed her, angling towards her mouth in much the same way he was doing now. Up until this point, they’d only been alone together a handful of times and each had been publicly, as per appropriate customs. Asha wasn’t required to be untouched—their bestial sides didn’t allow for the convenience of extinguishing sexual needs—but she
was
required to behave discreetly and with decorum in the wake of their courting.

She wanted to laugh at that.
Courting.
Ah yes, Taras had done that quite well hadn’t he? He’d taken her to the best restaurants and theatres, he’d hosted parties for their families and he even proved to be quite the gentleman when he wanted to. It had been easy to brush off the subtle heat in her gut as anxiety every moment they were together. Asha chose not to speak much if she didn’t have the luxury of just remaining silent. And eventually, she’d accepted that when the time came for them to fulfill their familial obligations and breed strong and sturdy cubs that she could allow her heat cycle to do the work for her. It would happen inevitably and although the lust would be chemical, she would still be in control. It was seemingly all so…simple. She could keep him at bay, waiting for nature to take its course and finally find a way out of this hell plot.

The way he touched her now, an intensity in his expression that always served to make her uncomfortable whenever she caught it, no longer appeared simple or easy. Because she couldn’t avoid him anymore, she couldn’t refute gifts and dinner invitations or claim to be sick. They’d be like this all of the time now, only one another to see in the mornings and late at night aside from the staff. There would be no more flights beckoning her to meet him in Madrid or Venice before she could scurry back home and disappear into the millions of India as just another slightly average she-tiger. She would have to face him every. Single. Day. It was too much, it was all entirely too much so she did what she’d grown to know as her defense mechanism and evaded his emotional probing.

Asha snatched her eyes from his own and put them in the middle of his chest. “Blood. There is blood on your
pathani
.”

Against the cream colored, time-honored cloth that he’d worn in support of her family’s wedding rituals, were stains doting near his shoulder and upper torso. The tunic-like shirt had been donned with linen slacks cut to the length of his strong legs and a suit jacket that he’d abandoned. Sophisticated beading lined the collar, hand sewn by women whose artistry was shown through garments they’d spent the majority of their lives making.

She watched Taras’ throat work and then he released her, looking to where she’d pointed out the flaw in his usually pristine appearance. A slight growl of frustration rolled from him and Asha ignored the tightening of her nipples. That
was not okay!
That
was not normal! And the way her tigress decided to take notice of how crisp he smelled…she was ignoring that also.

Horrible bastard. He’s a horrible bastard. That blood was from a murder; a casual murder. Wait…what is he doing?

 
“What are you doing?” Asha barked aloud.

Taras continued to tug the
pathani
upwards and then over his head, revealing a thin white tank top that showed entirely too much by way of skin and scars and gods-damn muscle!

“Taking it off so I can have it cleaned,” he answered gruffly, scowling down at the shirt. “Is probably ruined now.”

He sounded so bothered that she offered comfort when she should’ve been either going for his eyes with her claws or sprinting away. “I’m sure one of the staff knows how to lift the stains.”

His expression lightened some. “Hope so.” His chest moved with his hard exhale. “Will go change now.”

Asha nodded. “All right.”

“You will come with,” her husband tossed over his shoulder as he moved away from her in long strides. “I want to show you the bedroom. Very large and very comfortable. I think you will like it.”

For reasons that she would never be able to explain, she followed. Whether it was that gods-damn inquisitive temperament or the way his shoulders and back flexed ever so slightly beneath that tank top, she did not know. It could have just been her determination to stay away from her pride but something told her that much like her query about his fighting bears, Asha would regret it.

Three

Her
silence unsettled him. Asha wasn’t an easy woman to read. Her lack of expression and her often times droll tone simply made it difficult. However, in the hall, Taras had read more than a general air of distrust for a moment. It didn’t last long and he suspected it probably never would, but her face had changed. There had been a brief flash of fear when he’d found her and then annoyance after she’d hit him. Taras almost laughed. People didn’t hit him and they certainly didn’t accuse him of skulking. The abject horror at his confession concerning his days of fighting brown bears had amused him to no end but he’d controlled the twitch of his lips. He had the feeling she’d hit him again if the mood suited her. There was steel behind that gaze. His wife wasn’t a weak woman. No matter what others thought. His reasoning for choosing her went far beyond obsessive interest. She was intriguing and quite possibly harder—colder—than he’d
ever
been when she was pushed. It may take a bit to get her there, but once one bounded past the softness, there was ferocity. This…tickled him.

However, as he stood back and watched her rove her gaze over their bedroom, he couldn’t gauge her thoughts. He couldn’t tell if she were impressed with the expanse of space that appeared to be more like a large studio apartment than a bedroom. The only thing missing was a kitchen. Taras had the room refurnished and painted in a Mediterranean blue. The furniture was teakwood and sturdy, carved by a wood worker in his pride. The fabrics ranged in yellows, burnished oranges and deep reds. He’d taken care to make sure the design was bright and…happy. Neither were things that he knew much about but he’d wanted that here. He’d wanted her to walk in and not feel as though she were entering a coffin as opposed to where she’d lay her head at night. There was a skylight above the bed that would close with the rising of the sun to keep her from being awoken at dawn unnecessarily. Taras would wake anyway. It never mattered how tired he was; three hours was the usual bout of his sleep cycle. Comfort,
her
comfort, was important.

“Well?” he finally prodded when he couldn’t take the strangling quiet any longer.

Asha’s gaze moved from the bed and towards him. She blinked. “Well what?”

“What do you think?”

Her small shoulders rolled. “It is nice.”

Nice?
Nice?
That hadn’t been what he was expecting.

“You do not like my answer,” she noted, staring at the bed again.

Taras shook his head, twisting the fabric of his
pathani
in his hands. “I thought...” He stopped himself and walked a few feet away.

“You thought what?” Asha questioned.

He looked over a shoulder. “It is not important.”

Disappointment turned down his lips. He’d hoped that she would be impressed; with their home, with all the luxuries. The television was large and one of the best on the market. Taras had an excellent music system in place and he’d even invented a series of rotating racks for the walk-in closet. The view from their bedroom overlooked the grounds and things that would remind her of her previous home in Bangalore had purposely included in the motif. Yet, she still seemed unhappy.

Taras had never been more worried about pleasing a woman in his life. This one in particular twisted him into knots and he honestly couldn’t even begin to fathom why. Why did her opinion matter so? Why did he need validation from her in something so menial? Why couldn’t he find a gods-damn shirt?!

Stopping, he fought to regain some of his composure. A quick glance through his things brought him to tailored broadcloth shirt that he slid from the rack and walked out of the closet with. Asha had not moved. The bed appeared to have her attention.

"I have a question." 

"Ask."

"Where will 
you
 sleep?" 

That made him halt in the midst of straightening his sleeves. "I do not understand question." 

Asha waved to the bed as she turned to him, asking again, "Where will you sleep when there is only one bed?" 

Ah. She thought…

“Room is just through closet doorway and on other side,” he answered.

Shoulders, that were previously almost touching the lobes of her ears, dropped suddenly and Taras quirked a brow. “Will try not to be insulted by show of relief that big, beastly man won’t be next to you.”

Her lids closed. "You have to know," she whispered. "You have to know that this isn't what I want. That I do not need a reminder of where it is everyone believes I belong." 

“Sleeping next to your husband?” he questioned, watching her expression. “
This
is not what you want?”

She stopped, gazed and then said with finality, "No." 

"You,"—he looked to the skylight and then down again—"you are saying that we cannot eventually share bed?" 

“Have you ever won an award, Taras?” Asha suddenly ventured, watching him with a stoicism that made him want to fidget.

Instead of doing just that, he retorted, “Many times, yes.”

“And did you desire lying next to
those
trophies?”

Silence stretched between the two in a taut, invisible string. If either plucked it, he was fairly certain it would vibrate with every ounce of tension currently enveloping his wife. He searched for pretty words to give her. Something that sparkled in much the same way that her ring with the tiger-eye stone did. Flowery. Poetic.
Anything.
But he came away with no reassurances and no comfort. Because none existed here between them.

Squaring his shoulders, Taras examined her for a moment longer before careful, unfailing steps took him forward. “Would you like lies, wife?”

She eyed him. “What?”

He raked his gaze over her, getting just that much closer. “I asked if you would like lies. Well-spun, meticulous lies. The kind that generate false hope and sooth ruffled feathers. Would you like me to say that someday you will love me? That we will live happy, safe life where children will be more than offspring of murderous bastard you were forced to marry? Would you like me to say that I will become Prince of dreams and story fables? Would this relax you?” Taras causally slung his shirt over a shoulder and whisked his fingertips down her jaw. “Would you like me to make martyrdom easier?”

She slapped his hand and tried to move away. He took her by the shoulders and brought her back, whispering against her ear. “Tell me, Asha. What would make this better? What would make you hate me less? Hate yourself and all those around us less? Voice what it is so I can avoid stepping into your swell of disgust.” Taras’ hands tightened a fraction. “You think yourself to be trophy? Award? No.” He spun her so that they faced one another. “You are cruel punishment. Bittersweet reminder of what I can never even hope to have willingly because I am not good man. There is very little pure or gentle in this soul anymore. I do not pretend. I do not try. I know who I am.
What
I am.” Releasing her at the startled look she gave him, he waved around the room. “This is what I offer. Luxury. Stability. This is all I give. All I am capable of. Do not think to look for more, wife. You will be disappointed. You want softness? Not here. Dewy stares that say I sympathize? Not. Here.” Taras pointed to the floor. “What
is
here is a safe place for you to lay your head. A place where you will not question my loyalty or that of those around you.
Here
you can hide away from grasping claws. This is all.” He swallowed, pivoting away from the utter devastation creeping into her glare. “And I…I am sorry if that is not enough.”

Taras left then, quietly informing her that he would dismiss the guests so that she could rest. It was a lie. He was only doing so in order to stop himself from killing almost each and every member of her pride. His mercy in the face of their betrayal to his wife’s once joyful life was more than any of them truly deserved.

“Taras?
A word please?”

The rankling sound of his father-in-law’s voice made Taras’ hackles rise. He didn’t want a word. He wanted these people out of his sight, out of his home. He wanted the sickening scent of cowardice to stop tempting his beast into swiping his claws through underbelly after underbelly until there was nothing echoing around aside from screams and…